


Finding the Prime

by GoddessofBirth



Series: Factoring Out Binomials [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Back to the beginning, M/M, Past Abuse, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-08-08 06:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7747174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The closer they get, the less Isaac talks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The drive back is both familiar and completely strange, and the closer they get, the less Isaac talks, the more he looks silently out the window.

“We don't have to do this,” Stiles says once. “There's no reason. We can turn around right now and go home.” Because home means Vermont, now, and their cozy apartment. _Home_ is no longer Beacon Hills. They haven't been back in four years, and Stiles has exactly zero true desire to visit now.

Isaac just turns to him with a smile that doesn't look lost, doesn't look scared, doesn't look hollow anymore, and gently pats his hand. He twines their fingers together and rubs Stiles' knuckle with his thumb. “No, it's okay. I want to. Just...thinking, you know.”

Stiles leans across the seat to kiss him hard and press their foreheads together before going back to driving. After a minute, Isaac returns to his window.

Four years and they've never stepped foot back in Beacon Hills. Four years of ups and downs and nightmares and tears. Four years of laughing and writing and dancing and watching the snow falling down. Four years of _healing_. And now they're coming back, because Isaac's therapist says he needs to face it. Says he needs closure. And after two years of living in her pocket, watching her slowly coax Isaac those few final steps Stiles couldn't...well, they trust her.

Graduation is two weeks ago, and they both start big boy jobs next month. Now seems as good a time as any to make the trip. Yes, he's excited to see a few friends he hasn't seen since he's left, but mainly he's worried. Worried Isaac will lose some of the ground he's painfully gained in the last two years. Isaac says he's ready. Dr. Martin says he's ready. Maybe it's just Stiles who isn't ready.

An hour or so out, they pull off for food, because Isaac's stomach has been growling for the last half hour. It's an In N Out, and they're walking in the door before Stiles realizes it's the same one they stopped at six years ago, right at the very start of things. There's no recognition in Isaac's face as he wolfs down – ha ha – two double burgers and an order of animal fries, which just confirms how very, very out of it he had been that day. As much as Stiles had known then, it wasn't until years later that he had truly understood how close he had come to losing Isaac that day. How near to the edge Isaac had teetered.

They finish up and get back on the road, because his dad is waiting. His dad and Jody, the lady he had up and married a year or so back, with no warning at all. A spur of the moment decision, his dad had said when he'd called from Vegas. Secretly Stiles thinks his dad just didn't want to make them choose between attending a wedding or staying away from Beacon Hills. They've met her a handful of times since, and they both like her, but she knew about the supernatural before she married his dad, and something about her just screams _hunter_ , so Stiles has yet to be able to make himself totally relax in her presence.

His dad is waiting on the porch when they pull into the driveway. Stiles is out almost before he turns the car off, vaulting up the steps and into his dad's arms. They hug, full bodied and tight, like the manly men they are, and Stiles is definitely not tearing up. Because that would be stupid, since he'd just seen him two months ago. But seeing his dad in Vermont, and seeing him _here_ , in the house he grew up in, the house in which his life had irrevocably changed – it's just a different thing.

His dad lets go with one arm to widen the hug, and then Isaac is there, pressed in tight and encircled too. Isaac hugs him right back, grinning the whole time.

“Hey, Dad,” he says, words muffled by the shoulder he's pressed into.

His father's eyes brighten a little more, like they always do when Isaac calls him that. “Welcome back, boys,” he says as he finally lets them go, and then Jody is slipping out the door to join them, smiling that warm mother smile that Stiles can't quite return. But he appreciates his dad doesn't say _home_. Not welcome home, just welcome back. Back to the beginning, back to the start, back to where they both were born and where, now, finally, they won't have to die.

“You bring bags?” his dad asks, peering at the car while his feet are already starting down the stairs.

“Duh,” Stiles rolls his eyes. “I told you we were staying a week.”

“I don't know...” his dad smirks as he turns and walks backward. “I'm pretty sure I remember a whole week back in ninth grade when you didn't change underwear once.”

“Oh my God, _Dad_!” Stiles flips him off, while Isaac cackles. “Remind me why I came to visit you?”

“Because you love me, son!” By that time his father's at the car and Isaac is on his heels. Stiles starts after them, only for Jody to put a hand on his elbow. He manages, just barely, not to tense.

“I think they've got it. Why don't you help me set the table? Potatoes oughta be done in another five minutes.” 

He only hesitates another second before following her into the house. Once they're in the kitchen, she hands him a stack of plates. She opens the oven and peers inside, then leans back against the counter and examines him, arms crossed over her chest.

“You thinkin' you'll ever decide to trust me, kiddo?”

He can hear his dad and Isaac clattering up the stairs, Isaac laughing quietly at something as his dad snorts.

“I'm not gonna hurt him, you know,” she continues, like his lack of answer doesn't bother her. “Either of 'em.”

He sets the last plate on the table and says baldly, “You're a hunter.”

He's not sure whether he expected her to deny it, but she just shrugs. “I've hunted. I don't know if that makes me a _hunter_ per se. Not like the Argents over there, legacy and all.” He starts at that, at her knowledge, because Mr. and Mrs. Argent are pretty lowkey these days. Not _retired_ , but more interested in keeping one spot safe than going out to meet trouble head on.

Jody doesn't notice. “Mainly I've just managed to survive. Done what was needed.” A shadow passes over her eyes, painful and bitter. Like his dad looks when he drinks too much and gets caught up on Stiles' mom's death. “But that's neither here nor there, is it? You wanna know if your Isaac's safe with me around.”

Stiles nods stiffly. “Not just him.” But mainly him. He's long since had to trust Scott's safety to himself and his pack.

“This is my home, Stiles. And I'm more interested in saving people than killing them. Especially family.” The shadow passes over again, and then she smiles. “Now how about we eat and you can watch me kick your dad's ass in horseshoes?”

He nods cautiously as the timer dings, not entirely sure, but a lot closer than before.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles wakes up in his childhood bed, the blinds turned just enough that the early morning light streams through and surrounds him in warm dust mote rays as he blinks open his eyes. For a moment he's lost, confused, thrown back in time. Not sure if he should be flailing out to fend off an impending attack, or throwing open the shades to yell at erstwhile werewolf trespassers.

Then Isaac sighs and turns and hooks his calf sleepily around Stiles' and all of history comes rushing back to fill in the blanks.

“Sleep okay?” Stiles mumbles out, shifting onto his side so he can see Isaac's face.

Isaac's eyes are open and he's watching Stiles, head propped up on his hand. He's wearing a small smile as he squinches his nose and makes a rolling shrug. “Maybe? Not sure. I dreamed a lot. I feel okay, though.”

With that he rolls to a sitting position and wraps his arms around his knees. Stiles immediately misses the warmth so he mirrors his move, pressing their thighs together. He studies the room, almost entirely unfamiliar. Any of their things are gone, either with them in Vermont or packed away into storage, waiting patiently for a time they might be needed. The walls are a different color, decorated with a few artsy, black and white photos of unknown cities and towns. His dad had told him they're the work of one of Jody's two daughters. They haven't met yet, although Jody says they're coming to Beacon Hills this weekend to remedy that.

His desk is missing, too, replaced by a couple of nightstands that bracket a new, queen sized bed. It would have been nice if his dad had gotten _them_ a bigger bed once Isaac moved in, Stiles thinks petulantly. Although he supposes since Isaac was ostensibly supposed to be sleeping in another room, his dad _might_ have been making a point.

“It's weird,” Isaac finally says.

“Yeah.”

“I mean--” Isaac crawls out of bed and walks slowly around the room, touching the walls and the doorknob and finally coming to a stop by the window. That, too, is different, with new double paned glass and curtains that frame wide slated blinds. “--it's so different. But I still--” He crouches down and hovers a hand several feet off the ground. “The books here. And you reading.” He grins at Stiles, and a thousand and one memories flicker through Stiles' head.

“Mainly screaming them at you through the window at first.” The tattoo spreading across Isaac's back is illuminated by the morning light and when Isaac laughs, and the way his muscles bunch makes Stiles' mouth water.

“Hey, that was one of my favorite parts of stalker duty.” Then Isaac wiggles his eyebrows lasciviously. “That and you somehow always managing to get dressed in front of the window.”

“That was _not_ on purpose.”

“Lies. All lies,” Isaac says loftily. Then, “I liked it better when the reading was in here, though.”

Isaac's head in his lap. Isaac curled up against the wall and watching Stiles intently as his mouth shaped the words. Isaac interjecting commentary when Stiles would pause for breath.

And later, Isaac drifting off to sleep to the sound of Stiles' voice.

“Yeah,” Stiles says softly, “me, too.” He's about to demand Isaac come back to bed when he spins on the balls of his feet toward another corner of the room.

“I'm glad they took out the carpet.” Isaac's arm drifts out, almost touching the border of a now imaginary circle that had been nearly permanently stained with mountain ash, in those months before Stiles had figured out the full moon required he step _in_ rather than let Isaac keep him _out_.

“Hardwood's all the rage these days,” he comments, and rather than let the mood continue its somber trajectory, he holds out a demanding hand. “Come back.”

Isaac doesn't protest, just rises and pads silently to the bed. Stiles pulls Isaac down and rolls him beneath him. “Morning.”

Isaac twines his fingers in Stiles' hair and tugs him closer. “Morning,” he whispers back, then seals their mouths together.

Stiles moves over Isaac in a habit so familiar now that it's hard to remember when it wasn't as natural as breathing, when he had panicked over where his hands went and fumbled with tubes of lube and watched Isaac's face for every shift in expression. For any sign something he was doing had hit one of the many triggers Isaac's past had gifted him with, the triggers about which Isaac used to not tell him.

Well, to be honest, the watching Isaac hasn't changed, but now it's more to catch the hitch in his breath when Stiles hits just the right spot, or the flush that works up his chest and neck when he's seconds from coming, or the look that comes into his eyes when he's about to turn the tables, take charge.

Watching each other has never stopped being their favorite past time.

Stiles gasps against Isaac's throat when he comes, their hands clenched together against the comforter.

“Oh fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_.”

Beneath him, Isaac makes an equally wrung out, satiated noise, followed by a displeased sound when Stiles pulls out to flop down beside him.

“Greedy asshole,” Stiles snarks good naturedly, and then both of them dissolve into giggles when what he said actually sinks in. They lie in silence for another few minutes as Isaac absentmindedly strokes his fingers against the center of Stiles' breastbone.

Stiles can't remember exactly when Isaac had completely stopped feeling the need to put a physical mark there, only that it had started tapering off a few months after they started meeting with Dr. Martin, when Isaac had finally admitted his fear of Stiles leaving him, of the burden of Isaac Lahey finally becoming too much.

Stiles lifts Isaac's hand and presses it against his mouth. “When dad and Jody were doing all this remodeling, why couldn't they have made this an en suite?”

“Where would they have gotten the extra room? Can't pull space out of thin air, and an addition would be hella expensive, not to mention getting permits from the city, and--”

Stiles shuts him up by shoving a pillow over his face. “Oh my God, you watch too much HGTV.”

There's a knock on the door and Isaac sit up on his elbows, dislodging the pillow.

“If you don't let Isaac get dressed, he's going to be late.” His father's accusatory tone is clear through the door. “I know I raised you better than this, Stiles Stilinski!”

“And this is why we live in Vermont!” Stiles volleys back, but doesn't argue when Isaac pulls him from the bed and steers him toward a shower.

* * * * * * * * * 

They pull into the circular driveway of the Tudor and Isaac sees Stiles hesitate before turning to face him. He preempts his protest by leaning across and kissing him lightly. “I'll meet you back at the house.” He manages to have the door halfway open by the time Stiles speaks.

“Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?”

Isaac turns back with an eye roll. “You can't. You'd miss your lunch with Scott.”

Stiles shrugs, tapping his fingers across the SUV's steering wheel (RIP Roscoe.) “I can reschedule to tomorrow. Scott'll understand. And that way you could come, too.”

Isaac shakes his head. “Nope. You guys have been planning this for weeks. That's why this is now.” Isaac feels a lot of gratitude toward Scott, for the way he had tried his best to reach out to him in those first few months after Derek had turned him, tried to convince him of other paths even as Isaac and Erica had had a field day creating chaos in every possible way. But a part of him has also never been completely comfortable with Scott either, never sure whether the weighing look in Scott's eyes was a figment of his imagination or not. And Stiles is owed a little one on one time with his erstwhile best friend. Skype and texting are great, but they can't replace the sheer amount of time the two of them spent together before Isaac crashed onto the scene.

“Maybe Scott could meet us here--”

“Stiles.” Isaac re-closes the door and leans his head back against the seat rest, barely managing to restrain his exasperated sigh. “No. This is something I need to do.”

“Actually, no. You really don't.”

Isaac shifts to meet Stiles' eyes, worry making them tight around the corners. “Do you honestly think I'm in danger in there? Or is it that you think I'm gonna fall to pieces? Have an episode or something?” While it's not entirely out of the realm of possibility, it's been months. _Months_.

“What? No! Neither!” It's gratifying that Stiles looks so taken aback at the suggestion. He likes that Stiles sees him as strong, even though it's a concept Isaac himself still struggles with at times. “Okay, maybe a little the first one, but I admit that's probably just paranoia at this point.”

“Then what? Why are you pushing so hard on this?” Through the windshield Isaac sees the blinds in the front window shift.

“I don't know.” Stiles scrubs a hand through his hair. “I don't know. I just...I just want you to know you're not alone. You don't have to do this alone.”

“Stiles. _Stiles_.” Emotion threatens to swallow him whole. He grabs the back of Stiles' neck and presses their foreheads together. “I haven't been alone since the first time you let me walk inside your house, even if it didn't realize it. I got you, and Dad, and now Jody. And,” he grimaces a little and nods to the house, “we even have the kind of creepy but still endearing relatives.”

“Please don't ever refer to them as our relatives.” But Stiles sighs and nods and when Isaac lets go he puts his hands back on the wheel. “As long as you're sure.”

“I'm sure.” He's out of the car before Stiles can say anything else, but sticks his head in through the driver's side window to kiss him long enough that they both come away a little breathless. “Tell Scott I said hey and I'm looking forward to hanging out later.” Not one hundred percent true, but most things he feels are that way. He's mainly just happy he can find majority percentages for his emotions these days, beyond the ones he feels for Stiles. That aching need has never been less than full throttle.

He makes his way to the front door but waits until the SUV has disappeared down the road before he takes a deep breath and rings the doorbell. He wipes sweaty hands on his jeans and waits one...two...three seconds before the door swing open to reveal Chris Argent.

“Isaac. We're glad you could make it. It's good to see you.”

Isaac nods politely. “Thanks for inviting me.” Even though Isaac had been the one to reach out, it had been the Argents who changed his request for a meeting to an invitation to break bread. And Isaac had too many questions to say no to the people he never spoke to but who sent cards at holidays and checks at birthdays and packages of cookies at odd times throughout the year.

(Stiles used to dump the cookies straight into the trash until one time his dad had come to visit them and Chris had unexpectedly walked in on his heels, carrying a tin of snickerdoodles. He'd opened the lid, shoved one into his mouth, and pointedly chewed and swallowed before handing them to Stiles.

“My wife's feelings are getting hurt,” he'd said, before turning around and walking back out the door. They hadn't seen him again, but after that, Stiles relented on the cookies. Which was good, because Victoria's baking turned out to be _orgasmic_.)

Over Chris' shoulder Isaac can see Victoria setting down a tray carrying a pitcher of lemon water and three water goblets. There's already a plate of cookies beside it and Isaac's stomach growls. Chris' mouth twitches into an almost smile as he steps back and holds the door open wider.

“Come on in. Brunch should be ready in just a few.”

Isaac takes another deep breath, resists the urge to call Stiles and tell him to get back here _right now_ , and steps inside.


	3. Chapter 3

They sit at the Argents' dining room table, Chris and Victoria seated at the ends and Isaac an equi-distance between them. Chris and Victoria have Bloody Marys. _Isaac_ has a Bloody Mary. Everyone is acting like no one had ever tried to kill anyone ever.

“So,” Victoria smiles at him over a plate of Eggs Benedict, “Forensic scientist.”

Isaac fortifies himself with sip from his glass and puts his hands in his lap. He rubs his palm hard with the thumb of the opposite hand and focuses on the repetitive motion. “Yeah. I start a week or so after we get back. I mean it's mainly just a lot of errand boy stuff for the senior chemists right now, nothing impressive, until I've proved myself, but we get a lot of contracts from the government and I'm hoping to work into that. 

Chris raises an eyebrow. “I think you're selling yourself short. I know that company and they only hire the best. You got the offer before you even graduated, didn't you? That project you did?”

Isaac nods, his hands stealing out from under the table to return to the task of handling silverware.

“And then you graduated with high honors. Pretty sure you can be confident in fast tracking up the chain in no time.”

“We could make a phone call?” Victoria lets the offer hang, long enough for Isaac to realize not only is she serious, she's expecting an answer.

“Thanks? But, um, no, that's okay.” He doesn't understand the Argents at all, maybe even less than he had when Chris had first stepped off the elevator years ago, and back then he'd had exactly zero comprehension. “I wanna do it alone.”

Victoria nods along and Chris interjects, “Good,” like Isaac has done something impressive. Isaac coats his fork with some truly exquisite bechamel and wonders if he's going to sit through this entire meal without screwing up the courage to ask what he came here to ask.

“What made you go that route? Why not research?”

Victoria's head is tilted to the side, like she really is interested in his answer and not just making small talk. He's been here forty five minutes and it's starting to make sense that Allison had no clue what her parents did, how they had passed as upstanding parents and community members for so many years. And it's because they're not. Passing, that is. They really _are_ both those things. Like they live in double. Two halves. Two sides. Each carefully compartmentalized from the other.

And maybe Isaac _does_ understand them more. At least a bit. Because sometimes there's two of him, too.

“Um, well--” he realizes his hands are back in his lap and he forces them up, casually picks up his glass and takes another sip. “--at first I thought about the PD. You know, in an actual crime lab. I thought my, you know, extra--” he waves vaguely at his face, “-- it could give an advantage. But, um, then I realized I probably wouldn't pass a psyche evaluation.” He laughs as he says it, to show it's a joke. And it is, mainly, because while there's a strong possibility it might be true, the real reason he'd shucked the idea was because his internship in the second half of his junior year had resulted in undoing a good chunk of the progress he'd gained from starting therapy in the first half. It was too present. Too real. Too many body parts and too many broken cops and too many sobbing family members, even in the relative isolation behind lab doors. Too many unbidden flashbacks resulting in too much derealization. He wasn't there, and maybe he never would be.

“But private sector is different.” He smirks. “You don't have to deal with people so much so you can totally be nuts as long as you can solve the puzzles.” And everything is neatly bagged and tagged and sanitized before it ever reaches him. It's only puzzle pieces then, not jagged parts.

“We only get the really unsolvable, and I think I can help.” He shrugs, at a loss to explain in words what Stiles had simply _known_. “I just want to help.”

Both Chris and Victoria are nodding, and they both look so _proud_ , that it's less courage and more befuddled exasperation that makes him finally burst out with, _“Why?”_

“Why what?” Victoria asks mildly, at the same time sliding the basket of biscuits toward him. “Here, take one. Chris made the jam homemade.”

He finds himself obeying automatically, even as his mouth continues without him. “Why do you even _care_?”

He almost misses the look that flashes between the two of them it's so fast. A question and a quirk of eyebrows and the very slightest lift of one of Victoria's shoulders as she throws it back to Chris. Then it's gone and maybe it was all in his head.

Chris gives the mason jar of jam a perfectly balanced push that has it coming to a stop right at the edge of Isaac's plate. “The sheriff is a friend.” As if that closes the matter.

“No. _No._ ” Isaac slaps his palm against the table, vaguely horrified when it causes all the silverware to dance and rattle. “That's the same thing you said then. In the hotel. But that's not true. It's not. I mean, yes you're his friend, but that's not...that's not what this is.”

They're both calm, so very calm, and it pushes him on. “You tried to kill me.” He looks between the both of them. “You tried to kill me and I don't think you feel bad about that.”

Victoria at least gives him that. “It was the right call with the information we had.”

“Right. Right. But you still did, and we did, too, and I don't think _friends_ would stop you from doing that.”

Chris shrugs. “You didn't kill him.”

Isaac rolls right on. “And it at least made sense, while we were here. The showing up whenever Derek got too close, the whole thing with Erica and the principal. Protecting the town. Keeping the peace. Making sure nobody found out. Keeping an eye on things. That's like...that's _strategy_.” Stiles has rubbed off on his vocabulary.

“But the after? Once we left? There's no reason. You don't know me. I don't fucking know you. Why the birthday cards? The checks? _Cookies_? You sent us graduation presents and a housewarming gift! You don't do it for any of the rest of them. Stiles checked. You don't even do it for Stiles, not really.”

It's true. While Stiles is generally included in a passing way, and there had definitely been a specific graduation gift for him, everything is addressed to Isaac, or geared toward his interests, or deposited in _his_ account.

“I just need to know the _reason_.” Someone is gasping in breath and he realizes it's him. He looks down and then back up. “Sorry.”

Victoria is looking only at Chris, like she's waiting for something, but Chris' words are innocuous. Banal.

“Does there need to be a reason?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Okay. We made a mistake. Maybe if we hadn't, you wouldn't have been in the position you found yourself. Maybe we wanted to make that right.”

He'd once said something similar to Stiles, and it's said so smoothly, without any uptick of heartbeat, that Isaac might have missed the lie if he hadn't seen the corner's of Victoria's lips turn down and heard the small gust of air she blew through her nose.

“So you're trying to make up for thinking I was a killer when I wasn't.”

Chris hums in assent.

“Well then you can stop.” He swallows and hardens his jaw. “Because I did. Kill someone. Just not here.” The words fall starkly onto the table and can't be taken back.

Again, the reaction isn't what he expects. Victoria's expression doesn't change at all and Chris just asks, “Does Stiles know?”

No. Except probably yes. Because Stiles always knows. “Does it matter?”

“Not really, I suppose. Were you out of control?”

“No,” he says baldly. Wonders if he should text Stiles, if he's going to die, wonders if that's the case why he doesn't feel afraid.

“They why?” Chris' face is still neutral, without judgment.

“He hurt Stiles.” His nostrils flare and a remembered sense of panic sits with smothering force on his chest.

For his part, Chris nods to himself, as if he's just had something confirmed. “Ah. I'd wondered if that was the reason the police never found him.”

Nobody says anything and Isaac keeps sneaking glances at Victoria, because he knows the Argent women lead and he keeps waiting for... _something_. But still no one says anything and he finally can't stand it anymore.

“So....”

Chris and Victoria have another silent conversation and Isaac is left wondering how much of their communication is like this, how life can make two people know each other so well that they can have entire conversations in the space of a few seconds. Chris ends the conversation by asking Isaac a question he wasn't expecting.

“You remember my father disappeared, right?”

Isaac does. Right after Allison tries to kill him and Jackson resurrects and Gerard tries to _murder them all_. It's fuzzy, like so much of his time with Derek's pack is, twisted and distorted and he's never one hundred percent if everything he remembers is true. Which is why this is the first time it occurs to him that he never heard how that turned out.

“Deaton looked for him, right? He must have found him. Right? Nobody seems worried? Did the mountain ash kill him?”

“Not exactly,” Chris says, right at the same time Victoria states, “Well, he _is_ dead.”

Both of them stop and look at him. He assumes it's because his mouth is hanging open. He snaps it shut and continues to stare.

“Sometimes,” Chris says carefully, “you have to solve problems. Quietly.”

“Did you...” he's denying the implication because it makes _no sense_. “You wouldn't have killed him.”

“Of course not,” Chris agrees calmly. “He was my father.”

“I did.” Victoria's voice is matter of fact. Almost cheery. Then she adds as almost an afterthought. “Well, Peter and I did.”

Nope, Isaac was wrong. He absolutely understands nothing.

“Peter _Hale_? Derek's _uncle_?” He thinks he's been exceptionally calm under all this pressure so he feels he can be forgiven the small shrieking tone in his voice. As far as they know there's been little seen of Peter since his resurrection, _also_ around the same time as Gerard's disappearance, but Isaac knows he floats at the fringes of both packs. Not part of them (because everyone hates him) but not totally disconnected, either.

“Why would that even be a thing?”

Victoria reaches over and pats his hand and Isaac manages – just barely – to keep from flinching. She nods as if she understands and withdraws.

Chris looks down as he carefully slices off a bite from his plate. “Peter and I have...history.”

Which, yes, but Isaac would never have labeled the Argents and Hales attempts to kill each other as the kind of history which lends to partnerships. Victoria coughs, and when Isaac looks at her she has her lips pressed together like she's trying not to laugh. She catches his glance and clears her throat.

“And I certainly don't reject allies that fall into my lap.”

This time it's _Chris_ who coughs, and then he and Victoria are _both_ looking at each other with their lips pressed together like they're thinking of the punchline to a joke Isaac hadn't even _heard_.

“Um. Okay. But why--”

Chris waves his hand dismissively. “That part's not important.”

While Isaac certainly begs to differ, he suddenly remembers he's sitting at a table with two people who have more or less just confessed to committing murder.

“Uhhh--” His palm hurts, skin rubbed raw from his thumb, and so he sits on his hands instead. “You, um...” What he wants to say is something akin to an accusation of hypocritical behavior, but he's not sure how to do that without being offensive. “How does that fit--”

“He tried to destroy our _daughter_ ,” Victoria spits out. Her teeth are bared and her eyes flash and _this_ is the woman who had done her best to murder Scott before her husband had intervened. Isaac had never seen her acting as a hunter, not like he'd seen Chris, and at this moment he is very, very glad of the fact.

Isaac snatches the jar of jam and starts spreading it thickly across his biscuit, but Victoria seems to be content with her declaration and goes back to PTA mom. Chris gazes at her fondly as he addresses Isaac. “There are exceptions to every rule, as long as they _stay_ exceptions. We understand protecting family, Isaac. And at this point, we hope _you_ understand discretion.”

Which Isaac _definitely_ understands is Argent for keep your mouth shut.

“The jam is good,” he says awkwardly, because it _is_ , and because he's trying to figure out which of the dozen or so things running through his head is actually okay to verbalize.

Chris smiles proudly. “Thanks. We picked the raspberries last season when we were on vacation with Scott and Allison.”

Isaac finally shakes his head and forges on, because a part of him can't shake the feeling that this was all a carefully crafted distraction from his original question.

“You still didn't answer my question. Why?”

When Chris stays silent, Isaac knows he was at least partly right in his suspicions. This time he doesn't break the quiet, even as he starts picking frantically at a frayed string on the seam of his pants. It stretches out, far longer than is comfortable, and he begins to think Chris will wait it out, all the way until Isaac has to leave to meet Stiles.

Surprisingly, it's Victoria who pushes. “Christopher,” she says gently, but firmly. It's all she says, but he huffs out a small breath and they have another silent conversation, and at the end of it, Chris nods, almost to himself, before pushing his plate away.

“It's fair, isn't it?”

“Umm--”

Chris holds up a hand. “It was rhetorical, Isaac. I'm gonna talk now, okay?”

Isaac nods, barely breathing in case it's seen as an interruption.

“I helped you, Isaac, because I understand. I helped you because nobody helped me. I helped you because I can't change my past, but _you_ can still have a future. And maybe if we had realized soon enough, if we had looked at you as a child instead of a werewolf, we could have kept Derek from compounding what your father had already done. Does that answer your question?”

It takes Isaac a minute to understand what Chris has told him, and when he does, his sucks in a breath as all the pieces finally fall into place.

“Oh. _Oh_.”

Chris smiles ruefully. “It's a lot easier to repair things now than when you're an adult. Trust me on that one.”

Victoria is _beaming_ at Chris, like she's so proud she's about to burst at the seams. Chris shakes his head and rolls his eyes at her, but it's intimate and fond, and Isaac wonders that it took him this long to realize the depth of their relationship.

“Can I-- Can I ask a personal question?”

Chris tears his eyes from his wife to give him a look. “Haven't they all been?”

“Um...yeah. Yeah, sorry. But...um...why did you...you know--” He can't quite say _murder Gerard_ out loud, so he just waves his hand vaguely instead, “--when it was Allison, but didn't--” again, the hand wave, “--when...” He trails off uncomfortably.

“When it was me?” Chris finishes, his eyebrows raised.

“Yeah.” He directs the question to Chris, because from the look on Victoria's face, he's pretty sure she _would_ have.

“Why were you able to do something to protect Stiles, but not yourself?”

“Because--” He doesn't finish. Because.

“Exactly.” Chris says it with finality, like they've said everything they need to say. Which Isaac supposes is true.

“Now,” Chris shakes himself, and takes a breath. “Who's ready for dessert?”

* * * * * * * *  
An hour has passed and he's sitting in the front seat of the Argent's SUV as Chris takes him to meet Stiles. Isaac fiddles with his phone as his destination gets closer and closer, and forces himself to speak.

“Thanks. For everything. I don't think I told you that.”

Chris shrugs. “I don't think you need to thank us for doing what we're supposed to do. Maybe it will count for something in the end. Maybe we'll balance out our red. Either way, you don't have to thank us.”

“Thank you,” Isaac says more firmly. Because no matter what Chris said, he and Victoria hadn't had to step in. And plenty of adults hadn't.

“Well,” Chris smirks as they pull in, “don't think you're getting rid of us just because you graduated.”

“Good,” Isaac says, and for the first time, he means it.


End file.
